


the subjectivity of being a disgrace

by mulkki



Category: A3! (Video Game)
Genre: Encore!: an A3! Writers Zine, Gen, Tales of Chivalry: Ginji the Wanderer
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-25
Updated: 2020-12-25
Packaged: 2021-03-10 22:53:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,855
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28324887
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mulkki/pseuds/mulkki
Summary: Not everyone agrees on the best way to run an honorable band of thugs; Ken learns firsthand how true leadership is in the eye of the beholders.
Relationships: Kazama Ginji & Tatsuta Ken
Kudos: 7
Collections: Encore! Zine





	the subjectivity of being a disgrace

**Author's Note:**

> written for the [Encore! Zine](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/A3EncoreZine)

Mogi takes another drag from his cigarette; his fourth, maybe fifth, if Ken were keeping track. But he isn’t sitting in a dimly-lit, litter-strewn park with him to offer him lights, he— _they_ —are here to keep their eyes on the video shop just across the walkway. He sees the fluorescent lights flicker against the windows while the part-timer stares blankly at a screen, idling away the final minutes of his shift. Once he’s gone, and the shop is empty of everyone but the owner, is when they go in. _Don’t involve outsiders,_ he remembers.

“Fuck.” Mogi flicks the stub on the ground and grinds it into the concrete. “This is bullshit.” He doesn’t have to spell out what _this_ is for Ken to know Mogi’s talking about him—it’s this babysitting job, it’s the effort of taking the young master on this safe and easy gig to _build experience_. But Ken doesn’t offer an apology for it, because that’s not how things work in this world. The young master showing weakness like that would be undermining the group’s effort into his training; it would be flinging the hours of Mogi’s loyalty in his face. Instead he wordlessly reaches into his pocket and offers Mogi his own pack, all while never once taking his eyes off the storefront. There’s a vague mutter, and maybe a short bark he thinks might be a laugh; but soon enough he feels the pressure of Mogi relieving him of a cig. The flick of a lighter and the waft of smoke trickle to his ear, preceding a long, drawn-out sigh—of relief, of boredom, maybe both. But they continue to sit in silence, waiting for the shop to shut out the rest of the world.

“Hey,” Mogi eventually breaks the silence. Ken doesn’t mind; according to the underlings’ report, the part-timer still has 20 minutes left. “You ever wonder sometimes?” He takes another drag, and Ken doesn’t need to ask for Mogi to continue. “Of like, what we could’ve been? If we weren’t born like this, maybe.”

“No,” he says automatically, and in the next few heartbeats acknowledges the half-lie baked into the reflex.

“God, you’re fucking boring.” Mogi huffs in his direction, and the smell of smoke fills his nose in time with the waft of warm breath. “Not even once?”

Ken remains silent—it’s the lessons drilled into him that maintain his silence, the awareness that despite being a part of the group, he will never quite be on their level. The young master, heir, and future leader does not share these kinds of silly pipe dreams, least of all with low-level punks. Share drinks, sure; share those moments of loyalty. Share fights, money, women—but not emotions, not weakness, not glimpses of the green youth underneath. Be a man.

“Fifteen minutes to go,” is all he responds with, and the conversation dies.

But Mogi is bored, and boredom is a better driving force than most know. “Well, I could’ve been a movie star, probably.” He nods at one of the many posters taped to the shop windows. “That one kinda looks like me, doesn’t it?” There’s a slick duo of gangsters, western-style, and one of them has hair vaguely the length of Mogi’s. The other one has a hat that looks a bit like what Ken might have in his closet.

“Sure,” he grunts out. He looks at the other posters, and sees one that reminds him of Kazama’s underling… what was his name? Except now that he squints at the poster, it’s a girl.

“Acting… tch, can’t be all that hard, right?” Mogi stands and stretches, arms high in the air in a way Ken knows makes his shirt ride up to show off his abs. Ever the showoff and attention-seeker, but unfortunately for Mogi there aren’t any girls to admire him at this hour: all that’s left are the drunks, the petty thieves, the overworked salarymen. He still strikes what he probably thinks is an intimidating pose, one leg raised on the nearby bench in an impressive show of self-confidence. “Get him, you punks!” He spits, then raises his chin to give an invisible audience a glare. “That’ll teach you to mess with my turf.” He lowers his leg back down to the concrete and starts laughing out loud by himself, shamelessly open in the night air—this is the hour of night no drunk, nor petty thief, nor exhausted worker can be bothered to find concern for anything, and both of them know it. “Shit, man, this shit’s easy. I could probably be a mafia boss or something, too.”

In hindsight, Ken should’ve realized something then.

  
  


* * *

  
  


“Do you ever think about what we could’ve been?”

Kazama doesn’t look up from his sword, the rag in his hand never breaks its rhythm over the steel. But Ken knows he’s listening. Of course he’s always listening—it’s why the both of them are still alive.

“You’re probably thinking, _‘If you have time for those kinda thoughts, think harder about what you’re gonna do from now on’_... something like that.” Ken shifts where he leans against the wall to tie off the bandage freshly wound around his torso. It’s not the best work, but it’ll do for now. Everything is for now: the wound, their hiding place, this feeling of running away with their tail between their legs.

“So you do know,” Kazama’s voice breaks through his thoughts, and Ken has to let out a laugh despite the pain.

“Of course; you’ve been around me more than my own dad. And next, you’d say this—” he clears his throat. “‘ _—The question is, then: are you going to do it or not?_ ’”

Kazama’s hand never once breaks rhythm, and likewise he never breaks the silence—the soft noise of cloth on blade fills the space between them, reminding Ken over and over of where they are, of everything that is happening, and how he must survive the _now_ to reach the _later_. _Leave it to Kazama to make everything a lesson,_ he quietly laughs to himself. _Or have I been around him for too long?_ His eyes grow heavy, and he wants to take a break. Just for now.

“Bon,” Kazama finally says, and the weight of the syllable snaps his eyes open.

“Hm?”

“It’s true. We gotta think of what to do from now on.” Kazama finishes with one last wipe, looking over the blade to confirm his work. “But it doesn’t mean we have to deny what we wanted, or could have been.” He sheathes the sword neatly. “It just means we’ve got priorities to set. But,” he shifts over to where Ken leans against the wall and starts examining the messy bandage. “After the dust settles, and we have to find a way forward from there—sometimes, thinking about what we could’ve been can guide us.”

Ken whistles into the air. “Well, I’ll be. You could’ve been an actor, or something, what with those fancy lines. Didn’t know you had it in you.”

“Don’t kid yourself.” Kazama unwraps a few of the messy strips with a gentle hand, and his kindness in refraining to knock that attitude from his mouth is not lost on Ken. “This is reality, not some drama.” He ends the conversation there as he quietly rebinds Ken’s shallow wound, his own bandaged arm peeking out from under his sleeve, and Ken feels the hot flash of shame rush up and down his body.

“If it were,” Ken lays a hand on the neat knot. “What would the audience think of this pathetic, so-called heir?” He shakes his head. “If I were watching, I’d hate this guy. This incompetent greenhorn—how’s he gonna take revenge? Is he just gonna send in other people to get shit done for him? To get hurt for him?” Sweat trickles down his forehead and blurs his vision as his gash throbs under the gauze. “And I still manage to turn out like this.” He peeks out at Kazama under increasingly heavy lids. “I said you were the only one I could trust to handle this revenge case.” He laughs, a sharp, pained huff. “I was right. You’re the only one, because I’m useless.”

“You will be, if you keep thinking like that.” Kazama doesn’t spare him the knuckle to his forehead this time, and Ken snaps wide awake. “I told you I’d protect the Tatsuta family. That includes you, Tatsuta Ken.”

Ken blankly holds his forehead, still throbbing from Kazama’s sharp finger and even sharper voice.

“Are you dead?” Kazama asks, every inch a teacher drilling questions into a hapless student.

“No,” Ken dumbly replies.

“Are your limbs intact?”

“Yes.”

“Do you give a shit about what happens to the rest of your group?”

“I… Of course I do, but…”

“But _what_.”

 _Is it my group,_ Ken wonders, but doesn’t get to voice as someone stumbles through the dark hallway of their hideout.

Kazama is up in a flash, sword drawn and ready with no trace of his own injuries. “Who’s there?”

“Me,” comes Mogi’s shaky voice, and Ken’s eyes widen at the sight.

Mogi has, for better or worse, always had a certain swagger to him. Pride, if Ken had to put a name to it, but something beyond that—a certainty to his actions, the confidence to walk the streets with his head up and shoulders squared. It’s tiptoed across the line into arrogance too many times for Ken to keep count, but that’s the kind of visible power valued in this world.

This Mogi, staggering in beaten, bloody, and broken, is nothing like that. He stumbles in half-dragging his torn limbs across the tatami, trailing fresh blood over decades of old stains. He keeps his eyes down, barely able to put one foot in front of the other, and it isn’t until he steps into the light that Ken sees the brokenness isn’t just physical.

Kazama’s hand clenches the handle of his sword tighter for some reason, and Mogi holds out a bleeding hand. “Wait! Wait, please.” His legs finally give out and he sinks to the floor.

Ken holds out a hand to Kazama to stay. “Mogi… who did this to you? What happened?”

“Hah…” Mogi almost laughs—it sounds like a sob. “Myself. It’s all my fault, this is just—” He grunts as a wave of pain washes over him. “—the punishment I deserve.”

“Punishment? Deserve?” Ken’s mind starts spinning.

Kazama lets go of his sword. “It was you.”

“It was,” Mogi admits like a man on his deathbed; the words carry a weight Ken has never heard in his voice.

Kazama remains unflinching, the steel in his posture unafflicted by the unfamiliar gravity. “And what do you have to say for yourself?”

“I…” Mogi spits out blood. “Nothing. I got nothing. I fucked up, and I have no excuse.”

Ken looks to Kazama, then to Mogi, and then back as the wheels turn and slowly click.

“...You sent those guys after me.” Ken looks at Mogi, sees how he burrows into the wall away from Ken, and the cold realization washes down his spine. The arrogance, the derision, the bragging from the past months. The spiteful words, the inscrutable gaze as Mogi stared holes into him when he thought Ken wouldn’t notice.

There’s no trace of those daggers when Mogi finally lifts his head. After weeks, maybe months of feeling their weight, the absence is stunning. “Sorry,” Mogi chokes out, in complete violation of their deep-dyed traditions. “But I just—” Mogi clutches his side again, and Ken flinches. “—wanted to, to protect the group.”

Kazama scoffs. “And you thought this would do it. Killing Bon.”

Mogi looks up at Kazama, looking nothing like the Mogi he knew as unfamiliar tears threaten to spill from his eyes. “It was Yokota from the Kousei group—he offered a place if I offered his head, and I—I just thought that would be the best way... to ensure the survival of our group…”

“And of course you believed him, being who you are.” Kazama shakes his head. “Bad taste—as expected of that manipulative son of a bitch.”

 _And it was because I wasn’t reliable enough to become the next head,_ Ken realizes. “I’m sorry, too,” he says, breaking the taboo in turn, and both Kazama and Mogi’s eyes widen.

“Bon?”

“I’m sorry, too,” he repeats, solidifying the words in the space between them, laying his heart bare like Mogi before him. Admitting to his fuckups. Showing weak emotions. “I couldn’t be a reliable enough person to keep the group together.” He imagines his play-act counterpart on the make-believe stage, and thinks about how much he wouldn’t trust the guy to run a simple money drop. “I don’t blame you.”

“...B-bon…” Mogi croaks. “But you should, I-I mean, I did fuck up—”

Kazama turns between the two of them and sighs. “You can throw around blame all you want.” He takes a seat and sets his sword down with a finality that makes _both_ of them snap up, and he reaches for the bandages to attend to Mogi. “But a more useful way to spend your time would be to figure out what the hell to do from now on. Now move your arm before I break it for you.”

“I don’t believe this.” Mogi shakes his head. “I came here expecting you to run me through once I fessed up.” He stifles a groan as Kazama peels back soaked clothing. “Thought at least I’d die at the right hands. I’d die, and you—” he nods at Ken, “—you’d watch, and that’d be my way of taking responsibility.”

Kazama gives the bandage a little tug. “Take responsibility? By dying? Stuff it, kid. There are better ways you can make yourself useful.”

“How?”

“You’re stupid, but not a complete idiot.” He ties off one bandage and gets to work on another wound. “Figure it out.” He nods in Ken’s direction. “He’s working on it, too.”

  
  


* * *

  
  


_Imagine what could’ve been, if I had even half a brain walking into that trap._

In hindsight, Kazama should’ve seen it coming. He keeps pressure on the wound soaking through Kojima’s front, cursing himself for it all: his stupidity for falling for Yokota’s trap, his foolishness in letting Kojima tag along, and most of all, his arrogance in thinking he would clean up this mess all on his own.

 _And to think, barely a night ago I was lecturing the kids on figuring shit out. I wanted to give them a clean slate, a chance to start over by taking out their current problem._ He glances at Kojima. _Looks like this problem is gonna be harder to solve than I thought._

“We’re almost there,” Ken says from the driver’s seat, and Kazama feels the pressure of seconds ticking by as Kojima continues to bleed out in the back seat.

“How’d you find me?” he asks, partly to distract himself.

“You’re actually pretty predictable,” Ken replies, narrowly swerving into a side road. “Just got there a little late, unfortunately.” He swerves back out into another main road, and Kazama doesn’t recognize this area as near any of their hideouts throughout the city.

“Where are we headed? Bon—”

“—The Tatsuta group is over,” Ken says, eyes focused on the road, hands gripping the wheel tight. “Yokota found us earlier, and offered terms—unconditional surrender, for our lives.”

“Bon,” Kazama grips Kojima’s still shoulder. “Why would you agree to that?”

“I—” His knuckles at the wheel turn white. “I didn’t want any more people ending up like Mogi. Not for my sake.”

“You think Yokota will keep his word?”

“I know, I know—hilarious, right?” Ken turns into an underground structure, plunging them all into darkness. “Pathetic, really. But what choice do I have?”

 _You could have had more choices if I hadn’t fallen for his trap,_ Kazama admits to himself as Ken stops the car. _You could’ve had more allies,_ he thinks as he staggers out of the car, chasing after Ken as he carries Kojima.

They stop Kojima’s bleeding as best as they can, and only after that does Kazama finally allow Ken to tend to his wounds. His fingers are clumsy as he winds the gauze around Kazama’s torso, but it’s a far cry from the young master from barely days ago.

“Been practicing?” Kazama notes, more observation than question, and earns a surprised blink and eventual laugh—short as it may be—from Ken.

“Considering the past few days, yeah,” he replies, twisting the gauze in place like how Kazama had done just days before. “Much more than usual, at any rate.”

Kazama turns to let him reach over his shoulder. “Yokota won’t keep his word.”

“I figured.”

“Then why?”

“It was either that, or die then and there.” He cuts off a trail of gauze and tucks it into place. “At least this way we get to buy a little time to figure out what to do. You said it yourself, right? Instead of dwelling, figure out what to do from now on.” He turns to tend to Kazama’s arm. “And with how you ran off like that, I thought I should at least survive to find you.”

“Well, I’ll be damned,” Kazama shakes his head. “Being saved by Bon like this—never would’ve thought.” He lets his head drop against the wall, and Ken moves on to wind cotton around other limbs. He flexes slightly as Ken’s hands leave his back, trying to sit up, trying to let the sharp, bitter ache of the mistakes carved into his body keep him conscious in their silent hideout.

Ken breaks the silence first. “...I’ve been thinking,” he starts, and Kazama turns to face him. “About all this: being worthy of inheriting the group, how I’ve let people down, not knowing what I can do in all this. And I don’t think I’m wrong when I say Mogi probably felt similar about this—we saw a need to do something, and we did. Trouble is, we did it on our own. And look what happened.” He nods to the wrappings still holding him together, looks down at the bandages winding around Kazama. “Old Man always said don’t show weakness, hold it together on your own, but—” he hesitates, and Kazama can see the years of ingrained tradition fighting inside him, “—what if trying to solve everything on our own was the problem? What if I had brought in the other guys, like Mogi, in from the beginning and discussed the group’s future together?” He finishes wrapping Kazama’s arm. “And what if I were there with you earlier? Maybe Kojima wouldn’t have ended up like that.”

 _You could’ve been bleeding out in his stead,_ Kazama bites back to himself, letting the silence stretch between them as Ken continues on his other arm. He glances over at Kojima—breathing still labored, barely hanging in there. He thinks back to Mogi. He remembers himself last night, locking the door behind him and stepping out alone with his sword by his side. Each of them, doing what _they_ thought was best.

 _But that’s because it was my job to clean this up,_ he thinks. “We could’ve been smarter through this whole ordeal,” he admits in the vaguest sense.

Ken nods. “We can look back at what we could’ve been, to plan for what to do going forward.”

 _And now he’s throwing my own words back at me._ Kazama laughs to himself, strangely proud despite it all. _Smartass._ “And how do you plan on going forward?”

“We can talk about that after you heal,” Ken says as he helps him lean back. He tries a smile, all false confidence and bravado in the face of nothing, and it reaffirms what Kazama knows he should do despite Ken’s new theories.

“Of course, Bon,” Kazama lies just before his consciousness fades to black. “I promised the old Boss, after all—for the sake of the Tatsuta group.”

  
  


* * *

  
  


“My god, you’re _still_ not dead.”

“Surprised?”

Yokota scoffs. “Honestly? Yes.” For once, Kazama can believe him. Yokota’s usual calm facade is cracking visibly: it’s telltale in the tight grip he maintains from behind the chair, in the way he holds it between them like a shield. It’s in the flicker of his eyes as they flit from his henchmen and back, in the calculated count of distance between him and an escape route. “If you weren’t so damn fixated on the Tatsuta group, I’d want to recruit you for our Kousei group.”

“I think we both know the answer to that.”

“A shame.” Yokota inches closer to the wall as he signals his men. “Really, I mean it.”

“An even bigger shame would be to keep my sword dry.” Kazama takes his stance, judging the distance between them, gauging the strength in the limbs bandaged together. “Now come on—I’ve been waiting for this.”

Yokota’s men jump as he does: blade at the ready, he focuses his rage, duty, regret, _will_ , all into the single edge of his sword. He cuts and slashes through countless bodies, pushing onward until the floor under him grows slick in his steps. He stumbles as the others fall but he cuts and cuts—not stopping until he reaches the one that matters, until his blade runs through that body, until he sees, from barely inches away, his horrified eyes grow cold and clouded. Blood drains out of Yokota’s body and drips down the length of his sword, and he feels the sticky warmth wrap around his battered hands: like the clasp of Ken’s hands on his, like the feeling of promises made.

 _And kept,_ Kazama thinks as his breaths rattle in the silence. He rests his eyes. He’s done it, he could go now. He could face the old Boss with pride, having accomplished his revenge. The pitter-patter of footsteps echo distantly as he surveys his handiwork: a bloody mural thrown across the walls of Yokota’s office, Kazama’s arms aching with the labor of its craft. There likely isn’t enough left in him for a repeat performance. Even he has his limits. And Ken would probably be fine now with Yokota out of the picture. _A shame I won’t get to see what he’s figured out for himself,_ he thinks as the footsteps get closer.

A siren sounds in the distance, and his eyes snap open as he remembers Ken’s words:

_“You’re pretty predictable.”_

_Well._ Kazama hefts his sword again and gets ready to meet the last of the henchmen. _Maybe I should help with cleaning up my own mess._ He ties a strip of his bandage tightly around the fist still clenching his sword. _It’d be pathetic of me to always be bailed out by the kids._

  
  


* * *

  
  


_Too late again,_ Ken thinks as he watches his remaining men shoulder Kazama’s battered, bloody body and help him to a nearby car. _I’m sorry, Kazama._

“Stubborn asshole,” comes a voice from behind him, snapping Ken out of his thoughts. Mogi steps into view at his side, shaking his head with a look of respect that doesn’t match his words. “Taking on Yokota and all his lackeys by himself, after he told us to use our brains—what the hell? He’s just as bad.”

Ken watches with Mogi from the broken gates, their eyes following a miraculously still-conscious Kazama. He swats away the hands by his side waiting to assist, perfectly content on holding himself together in the back seat. “Well, it could’ve been worse.”

“Hell, it really could have.” Mogi spits on the ground. “He could’ve died. Yokota could have been coming after us right this instant.”

Ken nods. “We’d be dead by now.”

“Forget that—I should have been dead _days ago_. He could have killed me then and there.”

“I’d be dead days ago, too, if it weren’t for him.”

Mogi shakes his head. “Damn. We really do owe our lives to this asshole.”

“It’s more than that.” He struggles for the right words. “I… he saved more than just our lives. The group, for one.” He ponders, looking right at Mogi. “You came back.”

Mogi keeps his eyes stubbornly on the car now driving away with Kazama in the back. “Yeah, well, I owed it to him to see things through.” He taps the concealed jacket pocket. “Put an end to things, just in case.” He shrugs. “Looks like I wasn’t needed, though. I’ll be off now.”

“Bullshit,” Ken replies, and he’s rewarded by Mogi finally turning to face him.

“What?”

“Bullshit,” Ken repeats, calm and even in the face of Mogi’s mounting confusion. “If you’re gonna see things through, where do you think you’re going? You came back because the group is saved, didn’t you?”

“Uh…”

“Look,” Ken puts a heavy hand on Mogi’s shoulder, then retracts it when he visibly winces. “You were wrong before. But I know you did it with the group’s best interests in mind. And I—I think back to my own actions and what do you know? I was wrong, too, but I thought I had the best in mind for the group.” He shrugs. “Can’t blame you for the same shit I pulled, can I?”

“Bon,” Mogi starts. “It’s different. You’re the heir.”

“No,” Ken says. “That’s the problem. We could’ve been dead because of this… this barrier between us—my old man and I—and all you guys who built the group.” He jabs a thumb at his own chest. “You didn’t trust me to run the group because you didn’t trust _me_ , heir or not. And I’m gonna change that.” _Share drinks,_ his father’s voice echoes. _Share fights, share money, et cetera—but not emotions, not weakness. Be a man._ He shakes his head to clear away the voice of the dead. “I’m going to change how we run as a group. And you’re gonna help.”

Mogi briefly falters, but he stubbornly keeps up his stoic facade despite his visible bewilderment. “Y-yeah? I am?”

“You know all the shit we’ve been through these past few days. You and I _both_ know all the shit that was rotting away at our group from the inside.” Ken gives him a grin. “Hell—you dared to be honest about why you did what you did, even with Kazama’s sword in your face. There’s no one I’d rather have to help me rebuild.”

“Bon…”

“You said you were going to see things through, right? That you owed it to him, at least?” Ken clasps his arm. “Well, that’s what you’re gonna do. Here, in the Tatsuta group.”

It takes a while for Mogi to respond but finally he does, clasping his arm back, and when he feels the reassuring grip Ken feels relief spread through his body. It seems like the first time in ages. “The reborn Tatsuta group,” Mogi finally cracks a smile. “I like the sound of that.”

“I’ll even get the funeral altar ready,” Ken cracks back. “You’re here for life.”

  
  


* * *

  
  


“Boss,” Mogi calls out from the hallway. “Boss?” There’s still no response as he approaches the office door. He slips inside the office, making sure to firmly close the door behind him; finally, he calls out, “Ken.”

“Hmm?” Ken lifts his head from the file in his hands. “Oh, it’s you,” he says, slightly drowsy from the piles of reports on his desk.

Mogi waves a stack of postcards. “Latest batch from Kojima. Thought you’d wanna see ‘em.” Ken’s eyes flicker open with a new energy, and he quickly makes his way from behind the desk.

_Hey guys, it’s Kojima reporting in! Aniki and I are in the south now. The seafood is amazing here, sure wish we could be eating and knocking back some beers together!_

_Kojima here! We ran into a couple punks while walking the streets of Osaka—they mistook us for some other gang, can you believe it? Aniki is too cool and on a way different level from these street rats… it’s ridiculous! Anyways. They didn’t stand a chance, of course, but we ended up having to cut our time here short._

_Hi guys, it’s Kojima! The other day we were in Nakano and Aniki got confused for some actor. That was weird. But we’re sending you some souvenirs! Hope they reach you guys soon._

Ken smiles at the messy scrawl filling the back of the technicolor postcards, as well as the neat penmanship of the address to the side. “Looks like they’re having fun,” he smiles.

Mogi snorts. “Kojima’s just rubbing it in our face. Yeah, yeah, sounds great, stuffing your face everywhere you go.” He eyes the front gate of their building from the window. “But seriously, did he send us anything or not?”

Ken hums. “That’d be nice. I’d want to write them back, too, but they’re always on the move.”

“Well, that’s just like him, isn’t it?” Mogi shrugs. “He never did just sit around, being a wanderer and all.”

“Yeah, you’re right.” Ken’s eyes trace the scenery on the postcard. _How lucky, then, that he wandered into our lives._


End file.
